Somehow the Danes make both ends meet,
and even manage a wry joke or two in the
process. Outside Christiansborg Palace, the
stately meeting place of Denmark's 179
member parliament, stands an equestrian
statue of Copenhagen's 12th-century founder,
the warrior-bishop Absalon. In true heroic
fashion the horse is presented rearing back
not, according to the Danes, in terror at the
prospect of battle but at the notice of his
year's income tax.
Danger Fails to Dampen Humor
Danes are like that, incorrigible humorists
even during the most sobering of times. My
friend Knud Meister, a veteran journalist in
Copenhagen, tells the story of his wife's
uncle, a highly respected chemist named
Valdemar Friis.
During the German occupation of Den
mark in World War II, Uncle Valdemar, then
in his 60's, joined the resistance movement
and was eventually captured. Taken to jail,
he was questioned at length by an icily cor
rect Gestapo agent. With Teutonic thorough
ness the agent finally asked, "Herr Friis, have
you ever had any professional honors be
stowed on you?"
"No," lied Uncle Valdemar cheerfully, "this
is the first one."
Perhaps the most famous Danish victim of
World War II was Tivoli, Copenhagen's 20
acre masterpiece of color and light. Opened in
1843 on the outskirts of the city, the park now
A loaf of bread, a glass of wine, and ... Tivoli. With
the Moorish glitter of the Bazaar as a backdrop (above),
a couple enjoys open-air dining at one of 20 restaurants
in Copenhagen's 20-acre park. Tivoli's maze of amuse
ments, bandstands, gardens, and 110,000 light bulbs
attracts an average of five million visitors each summer.
Dreaming of greasepaint and the roar of the crowd,
a Tivoli cleaning woman (left) curtsies on stage at the
Pantomime Theater. Benches fill quickly in the evenings
for programs of ballet, puppetry, and the classical Italian
commedia dell'arte, which here enjoys its last refuge on
the European stage.
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